


The King of Wishful Thinking

by kitnkabootle



Category: 30 Rock, The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-20 07:53:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/884826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitnkabootle/pseuds/kitnkabootle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A 30 Rock/The Devil Wears Prada Crossover - Where in Jack Donaghy meets his match.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The King of Wishful Thinking

Jack likes to think that she loves it. That somehow and in someway she needs everything he's giving her. He also likes to believe that he's the only one that can give it to her.

That's what's given him the confidence to take Miranda Priestly, the ice cold Editrix on his desk at ten AM in the morning. Well, not really on his desk per say. No more like in front of it, though one of her perfectly manicured hands rest against its surface, her other caressing her own abdomen as he penetrates her from behind.

One of his wide hands grips her slim, white thigh, holding it up so that he can drive himself all the way inside. She responds positively enough and lets out a sensual moan that makes him even harder, if it's possible. Her hand slides from her abdomen that is still fully clothed (her skirt is bunched at her perfect hips) and she actually grunts as he thrusts again and feels his stomach meet the soft skin of her ass.

He contemplates asking her to let him take her anally one time, but he already knows that she will probably say no and it will make him look like a bigger fool then he usually feels in her presence. That's exactly why he can't quite figure Miranda Priestly out. He's always felt like the one in control, calling all the shots and making fun of everyone else's 'missed attempts' at life. But with Miranda, he feels the urge to please. He feels humiliation when he messes up. He feels the fear of impending rejection when she will finally tire of him.

Without realizing it, he is fucking her rougher then he intended and she is apparently aware as she's wriggled her thigh from his grasp and spun around, ejecting him from inside of her.

"Eager are you?" she asks playfully, though she is hardly playful and her eyes have hardened considerably.

She stares at him intensely, those blue eyes enrapturing him, luring him to land like a Siren from the sea.

Then slowly she sinks to her knees on the floor before him. He is achingly hard and he practically turns to stone when she traces her lower lip with her tongue.

"God Miranda..." is all he can think to say, and he wishes that he was much more suave. He wishes he was more his usual self.

If this were Liz...

He stops the train of thought instantly. She is nothing like Liz and he doesn't want her to be. She is perfection, a polar opposite from the mess that is his coworker. He has bragged to her about his dalliances with the ice queen, and she has yet to believe him. It's no wonder why. Miranda Priestly is in a class of her own, high above meager television studios and their employees.

He wants to please her so badly and yet he knows with a dramatically heavy heart that he never quite will.

He feels moisture on his cock and he gasps because it's not the warmth he expected. He looks down at her and she is actually cleaning him with a sanitary wipe. Her purse is open beside her and is the obvious place where she has procured this item from so quickly. He's half offended. If anything, all that's been in that area and around it has been her. And still, she's not okay with that.

But somehow it's so terribly 'Miranda'. Nothing's ever quite pristine enough for the Fashionista.

She raises her eyes to him and drops the sanitary wipe on the carpet of his office floor, discarding it as though the world is her trash can. It sort of is.

He can't find the urge to care though when she leans forward. Her oval lips part only to close around the head of his cock in one quick movement that almost makes him cum on the spot. Almost.

He'll be damned if he is emasculated by cumming that quickly.

So he hangs on, he bites into his bottom lip. His eyes squint closed and he knows he must look like some rabid animal rutting itself to impregnate its mate. 

She is in command, her eyes accusatory as if to reprimand him for enjoying himself. Her soft pink lips glide easily down the shaft and back again while her tongue does ridiculously erotic things to his painfully hard manhood. It doesn't feel much like his 'manhood' anymore.

He's Miranda Priestly's bitch and he knows it.

He moves his hands to thread them in her silver locks but she begins to pull back and almost spits him out until he stops.

His hands grip the desk behind her head and he squeezes it white-knuckled as she drags her teeth along the sensitive skin. In attempt not to cum, he looks towards the case of flowers on his desk. He never had flowers in his office until he and Miranda had started fucking. Now he gets them for her, a different type every week as some type of peace offering. He wants her to notice them, but she never has.

He feels the pressure building up in him and he looks down at the silver head sinking towards him and pulling back in slow, agonizing strokes.

When she looks back up at him, her eyes narrowed, he can't hold on. He braces for impact, bared teeth and all, as cums into her mouth until he has nothing left to give. He knows it's excessive and can feel it spurting into her mouth, her throat closing around him as she swallows. She's never done this for him before and he cant' help but feel some type of pride in her swallowing his uncontrollable ecstasy.

Then her lips leave him and he can feel that somehow he's still hard. She seems amused by this and her lips curl up slightly. She touches one manicured finger to her lips and collects a small dribble of semen that she's missed. He waits for her to lick it clean, but she doesn't. She keeps it there on her fingertip as she stands up to her full height on five inch Prada shoes. Then she places the finger underneath his shirt collar and cleans it there instead.

Jack is speechless. He wants to throw her against the desk and fuck her so hard that she can't leave the encounter without limping.

But he doesn't. He stands there looking spent, needy and absurd as Miranda slides her pencil skirt down her thighs and adjusts her striped vest, refastening the lower button.

She bends over and he watches the exquisite swell of her ass as the fabric stretches around it while she gathers her Chanel bag and takes one look around the office. He uses the small amount of time to adjust his clothes and re-buckle his belt.

"Well that was a nice lunch break wasn't it?" He makes small talk trying one of his signature Jack Donaghy smiles.

Miranda's lips thin into a small line and she humors him with a very small smile.

He stands there awkwardly as her eyes roam around the office and her slender nose twitches slightly. Her lips purse and Jack feels all of the color rush from his face.

She crosses towards his office door looking as imperial as ever though she halts in the door frame once it's opened.

He wants her to turn back to him and thank him, or to say some words of assurance that what they're doing is something she loves and needs. He wants her to smile radiantly as he knows she can and wants her to tell him this is never going to end. He lives on that shred of hope.

But Miranda turns her head and looks out from beneath her silver forelock. 

"I despise freesias." she whispers.

A closing door punctuates the statement.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Freesias  
> Requested by: @jenc81
> 
> Originally Posted on LiveJournal - January 8th, 2010


End file.
